Something I now think more about it is the importance of incorporating the voices of the people whose stories you aim to tell in a respectful way. It is hard to do. We talked about this with our discussions on Keene and Hartman. Although we didn’t agree on an exact way or guideline to do this, (because I don’t think there is a straightforward answer), it definitely is something to constantly think about. Specifically, I’d always thought about stories surrounding slavery and how they have become basically “trauma porn.” So when trying to tell stories of slaves or other people that haven’t been told before, it is important to consider voice. However, there are limited sources so it’s hard to fill in the gaps in history. I think this is an important conversation to keep having in regards to historical fiction.

The discussion around the James Baldwin assigned readings made me think more about audience. Specifically if something is written to be private or public. Or what it means if something is written to be private or intimate, but made public. This has made me think more about the audience for my project and how formatting (letters) changes the interpretation of the pieces. Also, this made me think about novels that are told entirely through letters because there’s a sense of intimacy and privacy because of the format, but it’s being read by a large audience. I would be interested in exploring writing through letters more in the future.

Question: In terms of writing, I wonder what types, genres, or formats are most effective in inspiring change amongst the everyday person? I honestly would be interested in seeing this as a psychology study.

Week 9 Writing Assignment

Immediately, the conventional image surrounding breast cancer is broken down. In the beginning chapter, it is mentioned that cancer, or more specifically, breast cancer has become oversaturated in society. The image presented to society is that of the “survivor.” This leaves out the complete experience of cancer. It also leaves out those who do not survive. I never really thought about it like that. I always thought the “survivor” image was cancer patients taking back their narrative, so that it no longer was just one of sickness and death. This is not to say that this was not true, but that it becomes a question of who’s right is it to change that narrative? Because by doing so, all cancer patients are pushed into having that narrative thrust upon themselves. That must be so frustrating. Boyer immediately calls this out, so that expectations of a “positive”, “smile-only” experience is not expected from this memoir. Instead, the narrative of breast cancer is changed by her recounting of the indescribable, hard parts of fighting it. For example, she tackles the detachment that comes from having machines invade and measure your body constantly. Being asked “How are you feeling?” or “Rate your pain on a scale of 1-10” made her realize that there is no descriptive measurement for how you are feeling. Mikey mentions this desensitization and the brutal honesty of her medical experience when he writes how she doesn’t describe drugs administered as “miracles,” but rather as “poison.” Rarely, does she feel better, and when she does, it’s at what cost? These sections were particularly hard to read, especially if one is coming in with the “survivor-experience” mindset.

The breast cancer commercials make it seem as though there is so much support, but the story of individuals is different. For example, Boyer talks about losing friends who couldn’t handle having a friend with cancer. She also mentions the positive effects of this: their image of her as healthy remains intact. She also mentions the feeling of having to pay back society if she survives. Is she expected to become like the people in the commercials: telling her story to anyone who would listen? Bragging about the new treatments and care received at the hospitals she attended? Does she then lose control of her narrative? Addressing all of these things is her way of tearing down the traditional narrative around breast cancer.

I close my eyes as I sit on the edge of my bed, my chest rising up and down quickly as I struggle to breathe. To go to the hospital or not? It’s a Friday night and for most people, the answer would be common sense. I’m having trouble breathing and I won’t be able to see my primary doctor until Monday so what’s there to consider?

I open my eyes and look down at the blue inhaler that’s been my companion for the last few days. Unfortunately, it hasn’t helped much, which worries me. Rarely, does my asthma bother me and when it does, it’s usually solved by a few puffs. After all, I’d only had one asthma attack in my life.

Something else is wrong. I know it.

So why am I hesitating to get off the bed, walk into my mother’s room, and ask her to drive me to the ER?

I think of all of the past visits for various reasons…all ending similarly: a regret of going. But I am scared. And I don’t want to spend another night coughing so much that I wake up gasping for breath, too scared that if I shut my eyes, they will be shut forever. So, deciding to trust myself, to trust my body, I walk into my room and make the request of my mother. She gives me the concerned look that she always does when I’m sick. I’ve been trying to ease her mind for the last few days by saying that I’m fine, but I know that she knows that I’m not. Mothers always know.

I put on clothes and head to the car. Don’t mention your asthma. Don’t mention your asthma. Don’t mention…

It’s a quiet, but short drive. I walk in and feel out the chart and soon, I am quickly called to the front to get triaged. My heart is pounding. Here is the first test.

“Hi, sweetie, what are you in for today?” the young nurse asks taking my temperature and blood pressure.

Sweetie. Annoyance creeps in. Yes, I am short, very short and could easily pass for 15, even though I am 20. But, already, I feel belittled, and I know what I am about to say will be disregarded, as it usually is with “children.”

“I’m having trouble breathing,” I say, a bit of wheezing apparent as I do so.

She nods as she enters then in and asks for my other symptoms. But then we get to the past patient history portion. I can see her expression change to one of slight irritation.

“Any other medical conditions besides asthma?”

She glances out at the waiting room that is overflowing with sick people waiting to be seen. I knew from past experience that clearly I was expected to save this for a trip to my normal doctor.

I instantly regret coming.

I am sent back to wait in the waiting room with my mother and all of the other sick people.

I am called to the back. I sit on the white bed, listening to the beeping of the heart monitors, a sound that I hear more than I want.

A doctor walks in, looking down at his chart.

I brace myself for the confrontation.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Jacoby,” he says. “I understand you’ve been having trouble breathing? When did you start having trouble?”

I launch into my recounting. The recounting I’d practiced in my head the whole drive over and while waiting in the waiting room. “It started a few days ago. I had a really bad cold: runny nose, coughing, fatigue…but then I couldn’t breathe at night and my coughing is so bad that I can’t sleep at night.” I avoid the mention of my asthma. I know it will eventually come up, but I’m curious to see what he will suggest otherwise.

“Let me take a listen.” He listens. “I can hear wheezing.” He looks at the chart. “It could be your asthma.”

I try my hardest not to roll my eyes. “Yes, I’ve tried my inhaler, but it hasn’t helped.”

“Have you tried a breathing treatment?”

I lock eyes with him. Oh, it would be so easy to send me home with one of those.

“I don’t think it’s my asthma…or just my asthma…this feels different…like something else.” I try my best to explain, but I am overwhelmed.

I can see the tiredness in his face. It’s a late summer night. I know he thinks it’s my asthma, but he knows by the determined look on my face that he has to do something else. “I’ll order a few tests.”

I am relieved and soon I am escorted to get a chest X-Ray.

When the results are back, I sit in the room, patiently. The doctor reenters.

“So your X-rays don’t show anything abnormal. Your cold most likely triggered your asthma to start acting up. It’s pretty common. We’ll give you a breathing treatment. That should make you feel better.”

It is not what I expected, and it is not what I wanted to hear, but I don’t know what else to say. Was there another test that I should suggest? Unsure, I just shake my head “okay.”

I am given the breathing treatment. As I sit there with the mask over my face, breathing in the treatment, I know that it is not working. Once I take it off, I still feel the same.

A nurse enters. “Feel any better?”

“Just a little.”

She turns and smiles at my mother. “Asthma is tricky. For some people, it affects them mostly as children and rarely as adults. But for others, it can remain a life-long issue.”

Why is she talking to my mother?

“My asthma rarely bothers me. Even as a child,” I say in an attempt to steer the conversation back in my direction.

She continues to talk to my mother. “It’s normal for the breathing treatments not to eliminate all of the symptoms right away. But it should start to open up her airways and over the next day or so, she should feel better. You can follow up with your primary doctor if the symptoms persist. We’ll give her another one before she leaves.” She walks out of the room.

I am livid. This was a waste of time again!

But what can I do?

She returns and once again, I have to sit through another ineffective breathing treatment. I’m ready to leave, so when she asks me again if I feel better, this time, I nod. “Yes, a lot better.”

On the ride home, I pray that whatever is the matter gets better over the next few days. And to my relief, it does.

But a few months later, in the absence of a cold, when I again feel the tightness of my chest, and it becomes hard to breathe, I don’t go to the hospital.

Writer’s Notes

My topic connects directly to doctor’s visits, so I wanted to reflect on my own doctor’s visits, but more specifically, on times when I didn’t feel heard. For me, personally, this usually happens during visits to the emergency room. I didn’t want to focus directly on race, even though that is a factor, but also on age and just being dismissed based on past diagnoses. For me, it’s always easy to relate upper respiratory issues to my asthma, which has been very frustrating. I wanted to explore how this can affect how patients thinks, how they explain their symptoms, their attempts to stand up for themselves, and feeling defeated. I struggled with trying to add a bit of humility for the doctors. I don’t want it to feel very one-sided. I tried to include that the doctors could be tired and to mention the room full of people waiting to be seen. I also wanted to include that the chest X-Ray didn’t show anything abnormal, so it would be reasonable to sum it up to asthma. So I would like suggestions on how I could better do that?

In his speech, “A Talk to Teachers,” Baldwin emphasizes the importance of education and its impact on creating change. He believes that citizens who are educated have a responsibility to create change, whether it’s through educating others or standing up to the government. There are several things to unpack here. Baldwin clearly appeals to his audience of teachers by talking about the value of education. Of course, most of those who chose the profession would value learning and knowledge. By invoking the idea that teachers, as citizens, have a greater responsibility to create change, he is suggesting that they have a job beyond the classroom. It is something more important than themselves. This appeals to teachers’ conscious, emotions, or feelings. It gives a greater sense of purpose. Baldwin further implements this image through his portrayal of the citizen versus the government. It is the citizen’s responsibility to hold the government accountable and to believe that they have the power to create “change.” They can do something about the problems happening in the nation. Again, this makes his audience feel that they have a greater purpose and more power than they imagined. This is a great approach because Baldwin is not just spewing anger at his audience, which wouldn’t change anything. However, he doesn’t shy away from describing the harsh reality that African Americans endured because of their value being shaped by White society. It is a balance of holding their eyes open, but also showing what can be done.

Something that stood out to me in Baldwin’s letter, “My Dungeon Shook,” is the connection that seems to be drawn between White Americans and Black Americans in terms of change being able to be achieved. For example, he writes: “But these men are your brothers —your lost, younger brothers. And if the word integration means anything, this is what it means: that we, with love, shall force our brothers to see themselves as they are, to cease fleeing from reality and begin to change it…You know, and I know, that the country is celebrating one hundred years of freedom one hundred years too soon. We cannot be free until they are free.” It seems to suggest that in order for change to happen, an inward reflection needs to happen within for both Black Americans and White Americans. Black Americans have to find their own voice and recognize their purpose and identity and White Americans have to come to terms with the reality of the fabrications that has maintained their sense of identity for so long. I don’t know how I feel about this because it seems to put White Americans at the center of the narrative again and gives them a sense of agency. However, the last lines of “A Talk to Teachers” suggests that this change is going to happen regardless of if White Americans rethink their identity. I have seen in others’ posts that Baldwin seems to be more emotional or intimate in his letter versus the lecture because it is to an individual instead of a group of people. I think it’s important to consider that the letter was published in a book and that Baldwin was aware of his audience being greater than just his nephew.

To the Expecting Mother on the Bus,

My grandmother always told me that some people are special. They just have it. No matter where they are, no matter what they’re doing, you can’t help but to notice them. They just have an aura about them that stops you in your tracks and screams “Look here! I have something to say!”

That was my first thought when the doors of the bus opened and you climbed aboard, the heat from the sun’s rays rushing in and making it unbearable to do anything, but complain. I, myself, fanned my face frantically with my hands, cursing myself for getting on a bus without air conditioning. If only I hadn’t missed the bus before this or better yet, I should have just stayed home where a nice glass of sweet tea with extra ice would surely await me.

But you patiently took your seat and settled in amongst the heavy sighs, shouts of “drive faster!”, and the holding of cold soda cans to foreheads. The entire ride, one hand gently cradled your swollen stomach, while the other held open a large, white book, the spine beginning to tear, several of the pages visibly folded over several times, ready to be returned to again perhaps on your next ride. 40 Ways to Prepare For Your Bundle of Joy!

Slowly the bus dragged from stop to stop, but your head remained bent over the pages, a soft smile appearing as you highlighted a new section. Until finally, your stop approached. You gently closed the book and climbed down the steps, a gleam in your eyes as more people pushed impatiently past you to escape the heat.

A few stops later, I too, emerged back into the heat, though in less of a happy mood. I trudged the three blocks from the bus stop to my grandmother’s house, where the usual group of children, with their colorful clothes and sticky hands from the popsicles their mothers thrusted into their hands, greeted me.

Something, besides the heat, was bothering me. I couldn’t quite understand it, but I knew that a worry had taken over me. As rumbling occurred outside, warning of a thunderstorm soon to come, I pondered my mood. Why was I so perturbed by this young, vibrant, excited mother-to-be? It was almost as if I felt haunted by your presence, but I didn’t know why. I sat on the porch swing, safe from the downpour, but near enough to watch the duration of the storm as I thought this over.

And then it hit me. Fragments of information came back to me from the psychology class I’d taken a few months ago. You were more likely to have severe complications after birth. Your post-natal concerns were more likely to be dismissed. You were more likely to die from these complications.

I felt uneasy as I remembered the excitement on your face. Is your nursery already set up? I bet it is. You’ve probably pored over every magazine looking for the right shade of paint, researched the safest crib, and picked out the best name. But would you make it back to this room…intact? What are the odds of you sitting in your rocking chair, healing normally, preparing for the journey ahead with your baby? Or would you never make it beyond the operating table? Would the nurses listen to your concerns or would they brush you off? Would they send you home to die?

I now know that what bothers me is that to be a black mother in America doesn’t mean that we get the liberty of being only happy. To be an expecting black mother in America means being forced to have this conversation. To think of what if. To worry if the swelling of your feet is more than a standard symptom of pregnancy. To worry if the pain in your chest after birth is normal or a hint of a complication to come. To worry if you are leaving the hospital knowing that you received the best care.

So I write to you to say: black mother, advocate for yourself. Trust yourself. Trust your body. Know that you are valued. Know that you deserve happiness. Know that you deserve the best care, not only for your baby, but for yourself.

Rewrite: Lecture to Doctors and Nurses

Yes, she is happy, but she is also scared. Maybe this is her first child. Maybe, it’s not. But she wants to leave this hospital with her worries assured. Listen to her. Do not make her feel crazy. When she tells you she feels a pain in her chest, do not write it off. You can save her life. You can change the outcome of her baby’s life.

She has a nursery set up back home. Did you know that it took her weeks to decide on the perfect shade of blue? Did you know that she read 40 Ways to Prepare for Your Bundle of Joy so many times that the pages are worn and the spine is beginning to fall apart? Do you see the joy in her eyes as she looks at her baby? The life that she envisions?

Do not rob of her of that. Order the test. Write down her symptoms. Explore all of the options. She deserves it. Do not let her become another statistic.

How many women come back through the Emergency Room with post-natal complications? And how many of them are black? Ask yourself, what could have been done better? What can be improved? How can you ensure that this disparity disappears?

When you dismiss her, it is her voice that you may deprive her child. Her embrace that they may never feel. Her laugh that they may never hear.

Your profession is noble. You save lives. You make a difference. Your work matters, but can we not do better? Do black women not deserve better?

***Writer’s Notes: After reading both pieces, I realized that the letter was easier for me to write. It comes more from a place of sadness, while the lecture comes more from a place of anger. I do realize that because of this, I don’t know if my lecture would be effective at causing change. It comes off as too accusatory, in my opinion. Baldwin, in contrast, is very aware of his audience and doesn’t come across as 100% angry, which I think would be something for me to work on when revising the lecture. I also struggled with ending both. Should I sign off on the letter? I ultimately decided not to because I don’t think it would be a letter that would be sent. It’s more so a reflection piece for the main character.

Melanie Walton

Week 5 Reading Post

My first impression of the photographs was that they were uncomfortably invasive. Although photographs can be important in terms of affording a glimpse into subjects, places, etc. that one might not normally get, their inclusion can be complicated. Specifically, the photographer has a job of whether or not to display the subjects as accurately and unbiased as possible. Subjects, however, do not always have a choice when choosing how they are displayed and represented. I guess what bothered me was the missing captions. Where are the names? This seems to invoke a sense of the subjects’ voices being missing also. Instead, they seemed to be grouped together on their circumstances, rather than their own personal stories. Nayun comments on this when she says, “Therefore, the lack of individual markers in the photographs serve to make the members of the tenant family appear as representatives of a certain group of people rather than products of Agee’s imagination.” However, even though the purpose of the book was more documentary, I still think that this is problematic because viewers have complete control of how they interpret the photographs which can be inaccurate and do more harm without any guiding information being included. Being grouped as a people feels like being grouped as a commodity to me.

I still have mixed feelings about the photographs after learning that most of them weren’t included in the published version of the book. Was this better? To not have them seen and therefore not be viewed as invasive? But then, the writing stands alone in telling the story of the subjects. I don’t know if this is better since the portrayal of the subjects is left up to the author. Admittedly, the author does comment on this extensively before even delving into describing the lives of the subjects. However, it is hard to truly believe the author’s declarations about his genuine motives to portray the subjects accurately and maybe not being qualified to do so. He was paid for the book to be published after all. Reflecting on the discussion of Keene and Hartman last week, I think that whenever someone else is trusted to tell someone else’s story, there will always be missing information and perspectives. I wonder how this would differ if the subjects read what was written and had the opportunity to approve it before it was published. This topic made me think of an article that I read for my Psychology of Race, Ethnics, and Social Change class on the dehumanization of poverty. I think that no matter the author’s intentions, his own privilege and biases jump out (such as his discussion of African Americans). Because of this, I think that more needs to be done to include subjects in sharing their voices and the behind-the-scenes of the publishing/recording of their stories. Methodologies have developed to help accomplish this with conducting research in psychology, but there is still work to be done. This extends into literature too.

To be in a Time of Inadequate Healthcare…

To be dropped from your parents’ health plan, to walk to your computer, to begin the search for your own, to stare at the many options, but to truly have none. To look at your bank account, to remember your student loans, to glance at grocery list on the fridge. To decide another day. To avoid those who are sick, to self-medicate on Nyquil, to drink tea, to say I’m fine. To ignore your friend’s nonchalant comment to just go to the doctor. To think of the bill. To sleep instead, take another dose of Nyquil. To go to class, to listen to the droning of your professor, to leave for work. To rush to dinner with your friends.

To rise with the sun, to stretch your arms, to feel a bit better. To be relieved. To brew your coffee, to glance at your to-do list. To sigh, to feed your cat, to run to the train station. To put on your headphones, to turn on your favorite podcast, to listen to the attacks on Obamacare. To wonder if “Free Healthcare for All” is the answer. To know you can’t put it off any longer. But to get off on the next stop. To enjoy the sunlight as you walk the two blocks to work. To take your lunch, to ask the waiter for a salad, to discuss the daily gossip with your coworker. To head home, to login to Twitter, to see people discussing the approaching election. To feel a pit forming in your stomach. To watch Netflix before bed. Collapsing into oblivion.

To wake up with a sore throat, to fix a cup of tea with lemon before beginning the day, to open Twitter, to see a debate happening tonight, to bundle up tight before heading outside. To sit at your desk with a stuffy nose. To desire a nap, but to work afterwards. To take a dose of Dayquil. To call your mom. To try her suggested home remedy, to pray that it just a cold. To return home to watch the debate. To hear candidates shouting about healthcare. People dying over absurd insulin costs. Feeling cold. A promise to look into health insurance tomorrow.

To wake up, to feel your sore throat still here, to call off work, to feel anxious as you talk to a healthcare representative. To consider cutting out coffee for a few months, to pick up extra hours at work…just to sign up for a plan you can’t truly afford. To feel no relief. To head to sleep. To wait a month until the plan goes into effect.

To feel better, but not completely restored, to go to class, to avoid the coffee shop. Being tired, unable to concentrate. To wake day by day anxious about your health. Finally, being able to schedule a doctor’s appointment. To be told you have a virus, to be handed a prescription, to walk to the pharmacy. To still have to use a coupon to pay. Anxiety today, tomorrow. Anxiety for the next week as you check the mail, to see the dreaded bill, to look at it another day.

Writer’s Notes: I decided to explore the topic of inadequate healthcare, which is related to my chosen topic of African American women experiencing higher rates of complications after birth. I wanted, however, to go broader by looking at the system. This of course made me think of the issue of healthcare not being available for a large number of people, which is a common topic in American politics right now. My goal was to start by focusing on a young adult having to find health insurance, but not being able to afford it, therefore choosing to avoid choosing a plan. I tried to show this avoidance by focusing on everyday activities like Adnan did with “To Be in a Time of War.” However, I wanted to show that it is unavoidable to avoid getting ill and the struggles people without insurance go through to avoid going to the hospital and being billed. Eventually, one is faced with having to opt into a plan that one cannot afford, having to pay out of pocket, or suffering health wise. It is an endless cycle of worry. I wanted to show this lack of relief at the end by the young adult avoiding looking at the bill. I found it challenging when determining where to end each line. The method I used when doing this was ending on a word or idea that I wanted to emphasize. Overall, this assignment made me pay more attention to word choice and lingering in the small details…both of which are very important.

I found the development of Carmel’s voice, or rather, the changes that occur in how her narrative is told, to be very interesting. At the beginning of the story, the language used to describe Carmel and her family is very factual. It is what one would expect when reading a history book: “Carmel was the lone child among the handful of bonds people remaining at Valdore, the coffee plantation to which Olivier de L’Ecart returned in late July 1803” (86). There is also a constant emphasis on her not talking: “None of the bonds people still present…could recall having heard her utter a single word” (88). Most of the time, others see this as an advantage. For example, Eugenie thinks this will make Carmel a great confidant of all of her secrets. Or rather, she cannot snitch on her. We are often told that the other servants exclude her because they find her silence strange. So in this way, the reader is made to feel like her silence is a disadvantage. Carmel is never shown to explicitly want to learn to speak out loud when this happens.

Eventually, she starts creating her own language and learns several languages at the convent. Even more striking is the samples of her “voice” that appear between pages 124-131. The language reveals someone who is learning to write and speak. It can be very difficult to understand at times. But, within these passages, Carmel’s opinions of Eugenie are revealed, whereas before, she would just be silent and not voice her opinions. For example, when Eugenie tells her she should not study so much, it is written that “I rolld my eyes” (125). So, we can see some confidence or at least her opinions beginning to be revealed. By the end of the story, the language is that of a traditional narrative. It is told from Carmel’s perspective by using “I”. It is not hard to follow, and the language is not as “textbook” as it was at the beginning. Carmel, by this point, is more in control of her powers. She is finally ready to take action, which has been contemplated throughout the entire short story.

I wanted to comment on Sofia’s point about the control of Carmel’s narrative and the incomplete, detached image of Carmel that remains. Although we are told that Carmel begins to move more confidently, these changes occur very abruptly. She switches from not talking and her thoughts/opinions not be known to making it clear where she stands very quickly. I found it hard to exactly pinpoint why these changes occurred and often had to reread pages to see if I’d missed something. We also don’t get to learn much about how Carmel mastered her powers and her night interactions with her mother. So much is still left unexplored.

America is Failing its Black Mothers

2019 marked twenty years that Dr. Denise Johnson had now been practicing. In her mind, the years she’d walked the halls of Princeton, labored at Harvard Medical School, and completed her years of residency all seemed so long ago, that she could barely recall them. Instead, her everyday routine for the last twenty years consumed her. Awake at five-thirty. Shower. Eat breakfast. Arrive to the hospital by seven-thirty. Change into her scrubs. Greet the nurses at the nurse station. Check her clipboard that contained her appointments for the day. Nothing new.

However, what seemed to still shock others (including her colleagues) was the large number of patient transfers that she received each year. Seeing “Transfer” at the top of her clipboard, no longer surprised her. In fact, she glanced past the names of the patients and instead, focused on the answer listed for “race/ethnicity.” As usually was the case, her transfer patients were predominantly African American mothers. She knew that the reason why she looked at this piece of information, differed from the reasoning her white colleagues used when they viewed it. Some would argue that it was wrong for her to view this information first. To use it to make a judgment. But she knew the data. She understood the stats. She knew that regarding this information a certain way could save this mother’s life…and therefore, even the life of her child. So, when each transfer patient walked into the room, she was ready. Ready to listen. She already knew what to expect.

And yet, the expressions on each mother’s faces revealed that she did not. Dr. Johnson could see the dejection on each mother’s face, already debating on whether or not to bring up her list of concerns this time. What would make this doctor listen? After all, this was her first child. She didn’t know what to expect. Of course, the doctor must know better. She just needed to rest more. But, why was her pain still here? And the swelling? Some days, she could barely move. Her blood pressure was constantly up and down. But, at each visit to the ER, they condescendingly looked down at her over their clipboards. Was she eating unhealthy? Maybe try eating healthier, drinking water, and resting. And follow up with your primary doctor/ OBGYN, they said in an exasperated, irritated voice.

And so she did…again. Her white doctor, who spent ten quick minutes running off a list of questions, barely noting her responses before moving on to the next one. And she left…with all of the same concerns. So what to do? When your insurance only covered certain providers? Providers who didn’t listen. Who made you feel uneducated and wrong for asking questions? A few looked for one last hope, which is how they ended up in her office. Not really expecting much different. But then, they took in her hair. Her skin tone. Similar to theirs. And the relief appeared. They related all of their previous concerns, previous trips to the hospitals, etc. She listened as they spilled out every complication, every concern, and she took every precaution. She ordered tests. She analyzed the risks. And she knew what to look out for. She imagined that this patient was at least one new mother saved. At least, one other family intact.

Writer’s Notes: The issue that I’ve chosen to focus on is the disparity that exists for African American mothers who die at greater rates due to complications for childbirth in comparison to their white counterparts. I found a few articles giving a brief history of the issue, but one that I found most interesting was “America is Failing Its Black Mothers” published by Harvard Public Health. One of the social determinants that is influencing the disparity found is African American mothers’ concerns about their pregnancies and complications experienced afterwards not being taken as seriously as white mothers. Their symptoms and concerns are disregarded. Although this article explores many different elements of the issue, the voice of African American doctors and their experiences with patients seems to be missing. Therefore, I chose to write from the perspective of an African American OBGYN. Specifically, I wanted to give a brief history of her experience over twenty years since the maternal mortality rate has been increasing for the United States since at least the 1990s. I wanted to highlight that not much has changed in regards to listening to black mothers over the decades. I tried to implement this by mirroring it with her simple routine. I imagined that African American doctors are more attuned to certain needs of their African American patients. Where does the obligation come in then? How does race begin to influence their judgments? How should that influence future changes in the health system/ training? I struggled with finding a tone that I was satisfied with.